


It Was Always There

by wendellgee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Bromance, Friendship/Love, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendellgee/pseuds/wendellgee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John finally accept what everyone else has known for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bored

**Author's Note:**

> Neither brit-picked, nor beta'd. Corrections, constructive criticism, comments and kudos greatly appreciated!
> 
> I have nothing to do with Sherlock other than the fact that I like to play in ACD/Moffat/Gatiss' sandbox from time to time.

John heard the sounds of furniture being violently shoved across the floor as he climbed the stairs of the flat. What was Sherlock up to now? He ran up the last few steps and stopped short as he watched his flatmate shove the desk against the wall where the couch used to sit. “Sherlock? What are you doing?”

“I’M BORED, JAWN!” Sherlock roared before kicking the desk chair in the general direction of the desk. 

“So you’ve decided to rearrange our living room?” 

Sherlock paused. John could see the consulting detective running through his options before deciding on what to tell him. He finally decided that a simple “yes” would suffice. 

John found himself wondering what Sherlock had really been up to, but decided it was safer to not ask. “I hope we hear from Lestrade soon.” John mumbled as he headed into the kitchen. A nice cuppa wouldn’t do much to make his day better, but it was worth a try. A bored Sherlock was harder to keep occupied than most children and it was definitely one of those days where John wished he kept a stash of elephant tranquilizers handy. He could deal with the pacing, the violin playing, everything and anything else Sherlock could throw at him, except the temper tantrums. 

Unfortunately, Sherlock was deep in temper tantrum mode. 

Sherlock took his anger out on an end table before he wandered into the kitchen. He absentmindedly pushed his microscope aside and sat at the table. John slid him a mug of tea and sat down across from the sulking detective. Sherlock looked hard at his flatmate and realized how tired John looked. “You haven’t been sleeping well.” 

“No, I haven’t.” John looked down at the mug he held in his hands. His turn to lie. “Somebody’s been playing his violin all night.” No need to tell Sherlock about the nightmares. “It’s a beautiful song, though. Something new?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while, but haven’t been able to pull it together.” 

“And your muse has begun showing up in the middle of the night to help you write it? Every day for the past week?” John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but I need to work. To do well at work, I need sleep. Could you please tell your muse to come visit when I’m at the surgery?” 

They drank their tea in silence, Sherlock observing the tiniest details of John’s weathered face. It didn’t matter how many times he looked at the Doctor, he always found something new. A small nick on his chin: he was using a new razor blade. Stain on his jumper: drop of jam from the sandwich he had for lunch. Plaster on his finger: judging from the location, paper cut. John’s eyes: tired and empty. Something was bothering him. But what? John was, as always, a huge mystery to Sherlock and he was determined to figure out this new puzzle. 

Sherlock stood up and put his mug into the sink. His blue silk dressing gown flared out as he spun around. “I’m getting dressed and then we are going out,” he announced. 

“Sherlock, I’m exhausted. I had a really long day at work. I don’t want to go out.” John rinsed out both mugs and set them on the counter to dry. “Besides, when do you ever want to go out unless we’re chasing some criminal through the streets of London?”

#

While he waited for Sherlock, John did a quick once over of the refrigerator and the cabinets where he stored the food. Thankfully, Sherlock had been behaving himself and was keeping his spare body parts (“Experiments, John.”) away from the food. They needed a few staples, milk mostly, and he would drag Sherlock shopping on the way back from wherever they were headed. 

After leaving the flat, Sherlock headed in the direction of Regent’s Park. “A walk around Queen Mary’s Garden will do me some good,” he muttered. 

“Excuse me? Did you just say you wanted to walk around a rose garden?” 

“What? I’m not allowed to appreciate the beauty of a rose?” Sherlock snapped. 

“N-n-n-n-no. It’s just not like you.” John found himself wondering, not for the first time, what else he didn’t know about the consulting detective. 

“Neither is redecorating the flat. It’s good to know I can still surprise you.” He pointed a smirk in John’s direction, but he was looking in the opposite direction. Sherlock wondered what he was thinking. Why was he so hard to read? 

They walked in silence, a slight breeze making Sherlock’s coat flap around him. He would stop from time to time, looking at the various roses, reciting random facts about bees and pollination, and how they affected the breeding of the roses. John, as usual, tried to hide his delight at how the detective’s brain worked. Sherlock couldn’t remember the fact that the Earth went around the sun, but he was a walking encyclopedia on bees. 

After their second lap around the garden, Sherlock decided he was done and headed back towards Baker Street. “Sherlock, we need to stop at Tesco. We’re out of milk again.”

“MILK!” Sherlock roared. “WHAT IS IT WITH YOU AND MILK? YOU’RE ALWAYS BUYING MILK! MILK IS BORING!” 

John took a deep breath and tried to control his temper. Having a tantrum of his own wouldn’t help matters at this point - it would only spur Sherlock on. “Look, you stupid git, I don’t know what the hell you do in the flat all day while I’m at work, but we’re constantly running out of milk. One would think that every once in a while you could walk a few hundred feet DOWN THE BLOCK and buy some FUCKING MILK!” 

Their argument caught the attention of several couples walking through the park, making Sherlock chuckle. John was always so concerned about what others thought, and here they were, having a domestic in Regent’s Park. He couldn’t help himself. “Ssshhh. People can hear us.” He wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders. John surprised both of them when he leaned against the detective. Something inside of Sherlock stirred, but he chose to ignore it for the time being. There would be time to research that later. What was important now was the feel of John’s body pressing against his. 

“You’re the one that started it.” In for a penny, in for a pound, John thought. He was tired of being worried about what people thought. From the second he walked into the lab at Bart’s, he’d become part of this weird hybrid: Sherlock-and-John. Whatever he was, whatever people thought, nothing was going to change the fact that he and Sherlock were partners in both work and life. 

“Mmmm. It appears I have a case after all… my blogger went missing.” John couldn’t help himself and started to giggle. When Sherlock joined in, he started to laugh even harder. Holmes’ giggle was infectious and John was pretty sure that he was the only one that Sherlock ever giggled with. 

“We can’t giggle, Sherlock. We’re in the middle of an argument.” He pulled away from Sherlock and looked into those amazing eyes. They were a very light blue today. He’d never seen any eyes that could change color as frequently as Sherlock’s did. He could get lost in them. 

Sherlock blinked, breaking the spell. “Let’s hurry up and get the milk. I need to finish redecorating the flat. I think the sofa would look fantastic against the wall under the smiley face.”


	2. The Night Terrors

John tossed and turned, but he couldn’t get the images out of his mind. It wasn’t the war that infiltrated his dreams. Not anymore. Meeting Sherlock had finally driven thoughts of the war, and its psychosomatic symptoms, from his life.

Mycroft had pointed out that John had missed the war. He never would have seen it that way, but meeting Sherlock… that changed everything. Sherlock gave his life meaning again. Meaning and danger: the two things that had driven him to become a medic in the military. It seemed fitting that he would find a replacement for that in his civilian life. 

The only problem with being part of Sherlock-and-John was that one day, Sherlock-and-John would cease to exist. These nightmares were new, and focused on what he jokingly called his flatmate’s greatest hits. Sherlock was a danger magnet and John had lost count of how many times either one or both of them had faced down death. Eventually, one of them would die, probably while saving the other’s life. 

In his dreams, he kept watching the detective die. 

#

Sherlock sat in his chair, rereading his favorite book on beekeeping, “Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen”. The walk in Regent’s Park had helped calm him down - the rose garden and the bees’ effect on the plants had given him something to focus on besides the boredom. He was hoping the book would distract him from the way John made him feel in the park, but it wasn’t working. There was something about the way John’s body had fit against him. The way John eagerly responded to being touched. The way that John made him feel. That unknown feeling welled up inside of him again. 

Insomnia was a constant in his life. Some nights it was because he was working on a case and his brain wouldn’t stop thinking about the details. When he wasn’t on a case, he would spend his sleepless hours cleaning out his mind palace or reading. In the days before John moved in, he spent those sleepless hours playing his violin, composing his own music. He tried mightily to not play in the middle of the night out of respect for his flatmate. 

John’s nightmares changed that. 

The first time John had a nightmare, Sherlock was thinking about his new composition. He had pulled out his score and begun to look it over when he heard the Doctor moaning and thrashing about in his bed. Testing a new theory, he began to play. Within a minute’s time, John’s room fell silent again. 

From that point on, every time Sherlock heard John begin to get restless, he played the new piece and John stilled almost immediately. He could complain all he wanted about the noise, but the violin music seemed to pull him back to reality and back to a restful slumber. 

#

“SHERLOCK!” John’s voice rang through the flat, making Sherlock jump. “SHERLOCK! NO! DON’T! SHERRRRRRRRLOOOOOOOOCK!” 

Tossing his book aside, Sherlock sprinted up the staircase and threw open the door to John’s room. He was whimpering and repeating Sherlock’s name. Sherlock knew that the man was deeply asleep, but the fact that the nightmare seemed to be about him concerned him. What could John possibly be dreaming about? 

In his nightmare, John was reliving the moment he shot the cabbie. What would have happened if he hadn’t shot the cabbie in time? Would he have watched Sherlock die what was possibly a terribly painful death from the poison? He knew that he had saved the detective’s life, but the thought that he might have been too late haunted him. 

Sherlock reached out to touch him, and then changed his mind. He wasn’t sure how John would react. Instead, he calmly said, “John, it’s OK. I’m right here.” 

“Sh’lock?” John’s voice was soft, thick with sleep. “Sh’lock? That you?” 

“It’s me, John.” This time, he did reach out and touch John on the shoulder. He was surprised when John grabbed his hand and held it. This wasn’t helping. In fact, it was making Sherlock’s confusion worse. 

“Don’t leave, ‘k?” John mumbled into his pillow and Sherlock couldn’t be sure if he were dreaming or if he meant it. He tried to pull his hand away, but John tightened his grip and moaned a little bit. Sherlock sighed and managed to get himself into the chair John had near his bed. It didn’t look like he was going to be leaving any time soon. He wasn’t sure he wanted to leave.

#

John woke up aware that he was holding onto something. He slowly opened his eyes a crack and saw Sherlock sitting next to the bed, his fingers interwoven with John’s. Sherlock, himself, was sleeping sitting up in a chair. If Sherlock hadn’t been snoring softly, John would have never believed he had fallen asleep. The better question was why was Sherlock asleep in his room and holding his hand? He didn’t remember anything after he fell asleep. Not even Sherlock’s violin. 

The detective shifted slightly before opening his eyes. “Good morning, John.” 

“Good morning, Sherlock. What are you doing in here?” He pulled his hand away from Sherlock’s and rubbed his eyes. 

“You were shouting my name last night and I came up to make sure you were OK. You wouldn’t let go of my hand and you asked me to stay.” Sherlock tried to look away as the doctor blushed a deep red. “Normally, when I hear you tossing and turning, I play the lullaby I’ve been working on, and you fall back to sleep. Last night was… different.” 

“Oh.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome.” Without another word, he left John’s room. John’s embarrassment was unexpected. What would have caused him discomfort? He had initiated the handholding. Was it possible he didn’t remember? 

John puttered around his room a little bit, looking for clean clothes, and trying to figure out what happened the previous night. He wished he knew what he had been dreaming about. Shouting Sherlock’s name in the middle of the night wasn’t a good thing. Not at all.


	3. Breakfast With Mycroft

John set a coffee (black, two sugars) and a plate of toast in front of Sherlock. “You need to eat, Sherlock.”

“Boring.” 

John stood up tall and invaded Sherlock’s personal space. “I. Said. You. Need. To. Eat.” The words were barked: the clipped cadence of a military leader. Surprised, Sherlock yanked his head up and listened to John say every word. John almost never pulled rank. It was fascinating. 

Without a word, Sherlock began to eat while John watched him over the paper. He nibbled at his own toast and kept an eye on the pouting man-child across the table. The only bright side of not being on a case was that he could get Sherlock to eat and sleep for a change. However, if they didn’t get a case soon, John was going to go on a crime spree just to keep Sherlock busy. 

“Fingers,” Sherlock blurted out, breaking the silence. “You wanted to know why I moved all the furniture yesterday. I was looking for my fingers.” 

John blinked twice; happy he was hidden by the paper. He really didn’t want to know why Sherlock was looking for fingers in the living room. “Well,” he put the paper down. “I certainly like it better this way. The old way didn’t have very good feng shui.” 

Sherlock awarded John with a smile. “You really don’t want to know about the fingers? Mrs. Hudson found the container in the fridge…” 

“No. I really don’t want to know.” John could hear Sherlock’s text tone chirping throughout their meal and really hoped it was Lestrade with a case. He folded the newspaper neatly and cleaned up the breakfast plates. When he was done, he walked into the sitting room and picked up Sherlock’s mobile. 

**SHERLOCK, MEET ME AT THE DIOGENES CLUB - MYCROFT  
** **I’M SERIOUS - MYCROFT  
** **DON’T MAKE ME SEND A CAR - MYCROFT  
** **LOOK OUT THE WINDOW - MYCROFT  
** **DON’T MAKE ME GET OUT OF THE CAR - MYCROFT**

John laughed as he read Mycroft’s texts. This was so childish. He was about to say something to Sherlock when Mycroft entered the flat. 

“I see you got my texts, Sherlock.” A wry smile graced the elder Holmes’ face. 

John turned his back on Mycroft and walked into the kitchen. “Sherlock, your brother’s here.” 

“I need a shower.” Sherlock stood up and headed to the bathroom. “I’m sure my beloved brother will still be here once I’m done.” 

Mycroft retreated to the living room and made himself comfortable in Sherlock’s chair. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and made a show of checking his email. 

John settled down in his chair and watched him. “When will you learn that sending texts is as useless as trying to call him lately? He doesn’t answer your calls and he never reads your texts. It’s like he knows when they’re yours.” 

“Would you have replied if I had tried to contact you?” 

“No,” John shrugged. “I figure if it were really important, you’d have me kidnapped like usual.”

#

Sherlock perched himself on the arm of John’s chair and stared at his brother. “Speak, Mycroft. It must be important if you decided to make a personal appearance.” 

“I have a situation where your unique skills are required.” A manila folder magically appeared in Mycroft’s lap. “A woman, a flight attendant, has disappeared from her home. Her husband says she went to visit her family overseas, but her friends say she wanted a divorce and he killed her.” 

“Boring. The husband did it. You already know that.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, whacking John on the side of his head. “Sorry, John,” he whispered. John’s eyes widened at the apology and then he looked at Sherlock and nodded. 

Mycroft watched the exchange between the two men. He thought back to his first meeting with John. He had come right out and said that John’s relationship with Sherlock was different from any relationship his brother had ever had. With anyone. (“Since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”) He was surprised that his brother would apologize, but he had been expecting this for some time and he finally got to see it with his own eyes: Sherlock’s not-so-subtle acknowledgement that the Doctor actually meant something to him. Will wonders ever cease? 

“If you know it’s the husband, why do you need Sherlock?” John shifted as far away from Sherlock as he could, wary of any more hand gestures. “Find the husband and bring him in. You’ve got control of every single CCTV camera in the whole United Kingdom… he has to be out there.” 

“We have him in custody. However, we have no proof that he killed her. For all we know, she disappeared on her own. She’s a flight attendant - she literally could be anywhere.” Mycroft held out the folder. “I need you, Sherlock, to prove how he killed her and where he hid the body.” 

“Why is this woman so important? Isn’t this something that Scotland Yard should handle?” John looked up at Sherlock after asking, surprised by the man’s unusual silence. Sherlock’s hand fell onto John’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Silent approval that he was asking the right questions for a change. John looked at the detective again, unspoken words shining in his eyes, before turning back to the elder Holmes. “Seriously, Mycroft, why haven’t we heard from Lestrade yet?” 

“The Yard isn’t aware of this crime yet. The missing woman is the sister of Herman-Morrison.” 

Sherlock perked up immediately. “William Herman-Morrison has a possibly deceased - possibly murdered - sister? Delightful!” He paused and looked at John. “Not good?” 

“Not good,” John confirmed. “The sister of the Private Secretary to the Duke and Duchess of Oxfordshire is dead. No wonder you’re involved.” John shook his head. 

“It will require some discretion, John, and… some… pants, Sherlock.” John watched as the Holmes brothers traded smirks. Would they ever grow up? Mycroft stood up. “If you’re interested, I’d like to take you to interview some of the sister’s friends and the staff of St James’ Palace. We think a member of the Secretary’s staff will know what’s going on. Possibly, one of them did it.” 

“Why the insistence on it being linked to the Royal Family?” 

“It’s a shot in the dark,” Mycroft’s face twitched. “You don’t murder the sister of a Private Secretary and not have it be political.” 

“It’s not related to the Royal Family. Must you both be so daft? I’m disappointed, Mycroft.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “It’s not political. It’s a crime of passion. He was having an affair. She caught him. Of course, she wanted to divorce him, but he wanted to avoid the scandal. He killed her and lied to her family. Boring.” He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin. “The body. What would he do with the body? He’d have to hide it well, to make the wife’s disappearance plausible… but where?” 

Mycroft stood up. “Exactly. When you figure it out, give me a call.” He dropped the manila folder on John’s lap. 

John waited until Mycroft was out of earshot before he mimicked him. “Exactly. When you figure it out, give me a call.” 

Sherlock laughed and touched John’s shoulder as he climbed off the arm of the chair. “We need to pull the phone and credit card records of Herman-Morrison’s sister, the husband, and possibly Herman-Morrison himself.” 

John laughed. “You couldn’t say that while Mycroft was here? He’d have that information for you.” He opened the folder, not surprised that Mycroft had already compiled that information. “Never mind. It’s all right here.” 

Sherlock snatched it out of John’s hands. “My brother is good. Very good.”

John’s cell phone text alert rang out.  
 **IT’S ABOUT TIME - MYCROFT**  
The corners of John’s mouth turned up in a soft smile.


	4. Hamish's Lullaby

John was pouring through the information Mycroft had supplied because it was too ‘boring’ for Sherlock. Instead of helping, Sherlock was playing the lullaby he was working on. It was a very beautiful piece and John enjoyed listening to it. He could see why Sherlock played it for him when he had his nightmares. 

Sherlock stopped playing and looked at John. “Do you want to know what I named this piece?” 

John looked up, confusion clear on his face. “You’ve given it a name?” 

“I normally name my pieces, John. How else would I tell them apart?” John sighed and rolled his eyes. Sherlock took that as a sign to continue. “I named it ‘Hamish’s Lullaby’.” 

“W-w-w-why?” 

“Because you once told me your middle name was Hamish. You even went so far to suggest it as a baby name for my son.” Sherlock turned away and looked out the window at the busy London street below. “It was to be a wedding gift to you and your bride.” 

John tried to hide his surprise that Sherlock hadn’t deleted that conversation. “You’re using past tense. Has the whole world given up on me?” 

Sherlock continued to look out the window. “When have you ever chosen a woman’s company over mine?” John struggled to think of any time since he moved into 221B Baker Street that he hadn’t come running when Sherlock asked him to. He’d lost count of the number of girlfriends that had dumped him, the number of one-night stands he’d walked out on, and the number of times he’d chosen to stay at the flat instead of going out on a date. “There’s nothing wrong with being a confirmed bachelor, John.” 

“Except now, there’s a beautiful lullaby written for a baby boy that will never exist.” He shuffled the papers loudly, eager to change the subject. “Er, mmm, the husband was doing a bit of yard work last weekend. There’s a bunch of purchases at a Homebase store and a few equipment rentals.” 

“I’ve upset you.” Sherlock turned back to John. He’d begun to soften around the edges and it was all John’s influence. It was uncomfortable, and he looked to John for social cues more than he liked to, but he was making progress. “You’re bothered that everyone thinks we’re shagging.” There. That was easy.

“No. That I’ve finally gotten used to. I just wish I were interested in women the way I used to be. I mean, I am, I _was_ , ‘John “Three Continents” Watson’, and now I’m…” 

“Sherlock Holmes’ pet. Live-in. Boyfriend. Lover.” Sherlock’s voice was cold, his words clipped as he repeated everything he’d heard people say about John. He would never admit it, but it hurt him to hear people talk about John like that because he was so much more than those terms would imply. That funny feeling came back. Why was John making him feel so… strange? 

“I was going to say married to The Work. What you do is important, Sherlock, and I like being a part of it.” John blushed a little bit and hoped Sherlock wouldn’t notice. 

“That’s good. You are much more useful than my skull.” Sherlock began to play again, effectively ending the conversation. He picked up the haunting melody where it began and played the 10 minutes or so of music he had written several times. He’d stop occasionally to make an adjustment and John noticed that each time Sherlock stopped playing, he’d glance over in his direction. Maybe he was looking for a reaction? John wasn’t sure, but Sherlock was acting completely out of character lately. He wasn’t sure he minded as much as he once thought he would. 

#

Sherlock wasn’t sure why he had told John about the lullaby. It was obvious he had struck a sore spot, but he couldn’t understand why it bothered John so much. John had made the choice to be with Sherlock. Repeatedly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I know getting married and having children is important to you.” His back was to John again, and he talked over the music he was playing. 

“It was… important to me. Things change… and I like my life now. A woman… a family… doesn’t fit into… what we have.” John struggled to get the words out. “I’m more surprised you remembered my comment. I didn’t think that The Great Sherlock Holmes did sentiment.” 

“I don’t.” Sherlock put the violin down and perched on the back of his chair. “Why did you shout my name in your sleep, John? What were you dreaming about?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it. Can we get back to the case now?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes. “You were saying something about yard work and equipment rentals.” 

“Yes. It appears from Mycroft’s notes that he was planning on doing some work in the yard. He must like to get his hands dirty.” 

“Dirty work. Exactly, John.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “He decided to do yard work because it was a good cover story. Did he chop her up with a chain saw? Use a backhoe to bury her under his new flower garden? How did he do it?” 

John looked at his watch. “It’s still early. Do you want to go out to the house and sniff around a bit? He’s not going to be home since Mycroft’s men have him in custody.” 

Sherlock smiled. “I like the way you think.” 

John waved the file folder in the air. “Mycroft even gave us the alarm codes to get into the estate. It’s almost like he knows you.” 


	5. Home Work

Once in the foyer, Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and bent down slightly so John could look him in the eye. “You’re married to a woman, you’re having an affair, she finds out, and you kill her. Where would you do it?” 

“The bedroom?” 

“OH! That’s brilliant!” Sherlock let John go and ran through the hallway. He found the master bedroom easily and waited for John to join him. Sherlock glanced around the room quickly. The only things out of place were some missing chunks of carpet. “John, what do you see in here?” 

“The obvious - a bed, a dresser…” His voice trailed off as he looked at the floor. “There are strips of carpet missing. That’s odd. The receipts and records didn’t say anything about interior work. Even if he were going to replace the carpet, he wouldn’t have started removing it in the middle like that. Normally, you would start in the corner.”

“It’s not enough to prove murder, but it is interesting.” Sherlock spun around the room. “Why would you cut random pieces of carpet out like that? What did he spill in here?”

“We need to run some tests, look for blood, that sort of thing. For once, it would be nice to have Anderson around.” 

“Anderson’s an idiot,” Sherlock snarled.

“He would have some luminol and a black light, wouldn’t he?” John challenged the detective. 

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a small spray bottle and a tiny black light. When John looked at him, disbelief written across his features, Sherlock shrugged. “Do I really need to tell you I nicked them off of Anderson a few cases ago?” 

“No, I guess not.” He took the black light and shone it on the subfloor as Sherlock sprayed the luminol solution. Neither man was surprised when the luminol lit up under the black light.

Sherlock grinned at John. “So, he did do it in the bedroom. If there was enough blood on the floor to justify removing parts of the carpet, there must be more blood in here.” He sprayed more of the solution on the walls and it became clear to the two men that the bedroom had been the last place Maggie Jordan was seen alive. 

#

Sherlock and John walked across the grounds of the Jordan estate. They were so beautifully kept that it seemed impossible that the couple could maintain them on their own. Why would a couple that could obviously afford to keep a few gardeners on staff rent equipment and try to do the work themselves? 

“You’re having nightmares, John. What are they about?” 

“Do we have to do this now, Sherlock?” John let out a puff of breath. “I really don’t want to talk about it.” 

“You shouted my name. You held my hand. You asked me not to leave. Do you really think I can give this case my full attention when…” Sherlock let his voice trail off. 

“When what?” John saw the heavy equipment Walter Jordan had rented and headed in that direction. 

“When you are so much more interesting than anything I’ve ever experienced.” Sherlock looked straight ahead as they walked. 

John stopped and grabbed Sherlock by the wrist. “You find me interesting? You deduced my entire life in 5 minutes of knowing me based off of my sister’s mobile. How the bloody hell can you even think I’m interesting?”

“I’ve lived with you for over a year and I can’t figure you out. Deducing the basics of your life via Harry’s phone was easy. Everything else about you…” His voice trailed off while he thought of his next words. “You’re very complex, John.” 

“Thank you, Sherlock.” John wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “You’ve been very odd the past two days. Is there something you care to talk about?” 

“No.” Sherlock’s skin was burning where John was touching him. What was going on? He started walking again, John still holding on to his wrist. After a few steps, John let go of him. Sherlock instantly missed the feel of John’s hand on him. 

“I dream about you, OK? I dream about you dying.” 

“Why do you dream about me dying?” Sherlock stopped and spun around. John couldn’t help but notice how cool it looked when his coat whirled around him. Would he ever stop being impressed by his flatmate? 

“Because… we’re… partners. Sherlock-and-John. Everyone knows we’re inseparable, so what happens when we get separated?” 

“I never thought about it.” 

“I know you haven’t. That’s not who you are.” 

“But you think about it. You have nightmares about it. I don’t understand why you would worry about it. Death is inevitable. Why worry about something you can’t control?” 

“I don’t know, Sherlock. Because you changed my life and I can’t imagine it without you?” John stood still, shocked that he was willing to be so honest for a change. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. He’d been waiting, no, HOPING, John would say something like that. But why? 

“Oh.” Sherlock turned back to John. “But I said ‘dangerous’ and you came. You know what my life is like, what your life has become, and yet you stay.” 

“Just because I know what it’s like to live with you, go on cases with you, and face down death on a daily basis doesn’t mean that I’m not afraid on some level of one of us actually dying. I was so alone, Sherlock, and I owe you so much. I’m terrified of losing you.” John paused. “Why am I telling you this? You must think I’m an idiot.” 

“I always think you’re an idiot, but then I feel that way about most people.” Sherlock smirked. “Yesterday, in the park, we had an argument and I put my arm around you. You played along. Why?” Would John’s answer put these weird feelings to rest? 

“Because we’re not even two people any more. We’ve become this weird hybrid thing, Sherlock-and-John. Whether or not we’re lovers, business partners, or flatmates, we’re a couple. I’m tired of fighting it. People are going to think what they want and I just need to accept that.” 

“I really did lose my blogger. Finding him is much more important than figuring out how Jordan murdered his wife and hid her body.” 

“You’re just saying that.” Without thinking about it, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and dragged him off in the direction of the heavy equipment. John pretended not to notice that his fingers were intertwined with Sherlock’s. He also pretended not to notice how right it felt to hold the younger man’s hand. “I’m still your blogger. I’ve just evolved. Heterosexuality is boring.” 

Sherlock, lost in the feeling of John’s hand in his, was quiet for a long time before he spoke up. “I do think about you dying. I picture you wearing all that Semtex by the pool and it makes me… uncomfortable. I’ve tried to delete it, but it won’t go away.” He looked away from John and mumbled the last sentence. “I don’t understand why I can’t delete it.” 

John stopped walking again. He spun Sherlock around until they were face to face. “You can’t delete it?” Sherlock shook his head. Unable to vocalize what he was thinking, John wrapped his arms around the detective’s waist and rested his head against his chest. 

At first, Sherlock stiffened at the touch. Slowly, he melted into the embrace, resting his chin on John’s head and tightening his arms around the older man. A flood of emotions threatened to take over his brain. He willed himself to think about the case, but it was a losing battle. As John was fond of saying, this was a bit not good. “People will definitely talk,” he whispered. 

“They do little else.” John broke the hug. “Can we get back to the case? I’d rather continue this away from the garden’s hidden security cameras.” John turned to face one of the more obvious ones. “Hi, Mycroft! Enjoying the show?” He waved, a huge smile on his face. 

Sherlock laughed. “My brother is so… predictable. Come along, John.” 

The two men continued through the garden at a leisurely pace. Sherlock would stop from time to time and look at different varieties of flowers. He would get so excited that he would regale John with facts upon facts upon facts. Eventually, John would get tired and pull Sherlock along. Every time John saw a camera, he’d wave. There was no doubt in his mind that Mycroft had hijacked the family’s security system and he was going to enjoy pissing him off. 

**JUST REMEMBER I HAVE EYES EVERYWHERE.**  
 **INCLUDING 221B BAKER STREET, DOCTOR WATSON. - MYCROFT**  
 **IT’S NOT MY PROBLEM IF YOU SEE SOMETHING YOU SHOULDN’T - JW**

“Stop texting my brother. What are you even talking to him about?” 

“He’s reminding me he can see us. I told him that it wasn’t my problem if he saw something he didn’t want to see.” 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, letting John’s words sink in. He wasn’t exactly sure what that was supposed to mean. Then, something caught his eye and he ran off like a shot. “JAWN! JAWN! I THINK I’VE FIGURED IT OUT!” He shouted over his shoulder, leaving John to watch as the Belstaff flared out behind him. He loved that damn coat. And, if he were being entirely honest, the man wearing it as well. 

John cussed under his breath. He started running after Sherlock and by the time he finished crossing the expansive grounds, the detective was circling a large wood chipper. As he got closer he could see Sherlock spraying more luminol on the chute. He fumbled the black light out of his pocket and immediately proved Sherlock’s theory right. There were blood spatters all over the equipment. 

“I need a body!” Sherlock paced back and forth. “I need to put a body in the wood chipper! I need to know what it does!” 

John shook his head sadly. Sherlock and his weird experiments… even if it would solve the case, he was unsure how likely Sherlock would be able to pull off this particular experiment. He was just about to pull his mobile out to call Mycroft when Sherlock’s started ringing. Without even thinking about it, John gave Sherlock a quick pat down and grabbed his phone. 

Mycroft didn’t wait for John to say anything before charging ahead. “Have you noticed you’re out of the range of the cameras? I haven’t been able to watch you since Sherlock ran off. What’s going on?” 

“Sherlock’s muttering something about needing a body. We’ve applied luminol to the floor of the master bedroom and on the wood chipper. There’s blood residue on both of them. Hold on.” Sherlock was gesturing wildly and shouting. “Sherlock’s saying that he killed her in the bedroom, threw her in the freezer in the pantry, used a chainsaw to dismember the frozen corpse and then fed her into the wood chipper. Wait. Sherlock’s going off again.” 

“You need to dredge the pond! The chute has been pointed at the pond now, but it hadn’t been earlier. Look. You can see where the wood chips had originally landed. He’d been saving them for mulch. Obvious. A wood chipper. How absolutely, bloody, BRILLIANT! It’s almost perfect! Who would have thought to go through all that just to dispose of a body?!?!?” 

Mycroft was shouting at John through the phone, but he had completely stopped paying attention when Sherlock started announcing what he’d deduced. By the time Sherlock was done outlining everything, he remembered Mycroft was still on the phone. “Mycroft, get your men here.” He disconnected the call before Mycroft could say anything else.

#

Sherlock and John sat in the garden not too far from where Mycroft’s men were going over the equipment. “I think about you incessantly, John. I can’t figure out what makes you tick. I’ve built an entire wing in my mind palace to store everything I’ve learned about you. There’s so much more though… like your love of jam and that god awful oatmeal colored jumper… that continue to confuse me.” He wanted to tell John about the weird feelings that took over every time he and John touched, but didn’t have the words.

John picked up Sherlock’s hand and ran his thumb gently over the skin. “Well, now, I’m holding your hand in public. In full view of Mycroft and his search team. I guess I can’t keep saying I’m not gay any more. Whether or not I really am has become completely irrelevant.” 

“Nobody ever believes you in the first place.” Sherlock smiled as he grasped John’s hand in both of his. He grew serious as he looked down at their hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what this is.” 

“I don’t either. I’m not planning to snog you or anything like that, though so you can relax.” Sherlock didn’t miss the smile that flitted across the Doctor’s features. “I miss the simple joy of sitting on a bench holding someone’s hand. That feeling of comfort. But I suppose you wouldn’t understand that.” 

“I understand it now.” Sherlock shifted so that his leg was brushing against John’s. Now that he had experienced it, he realized how starved he’d been for physical contact. “I said that women were not my area, I said I was flattered by your attention, and I said I was married to my Work.” He paused, shifting so that he could look into John’s dark eyes. “I’ve paid very little attention to my body. As you know, I barely eat unless you’re forcing me to, and I sleep even less than I eat. If I am successful at ignoring the two most important needs of my body, you must be able to imagine how easy it would be to remain celibate.” 

“Do I make you… Are you…” 

“Not now.” Mycroft was heading towards them. He couldn’t give Sherlock a body to run through the wood chipper today no matter how well he was connected, but maybe he’d set it up so Sherlock could run an experiment with a different wood chipper just for fun. “How close was I, Mycroft?” 

“I have enough evidence to ensure Mr. Jordan doesn’t leave his lodgings tonight.” He looked down at the men’s seated position. “I have a car ready to take you back to London. I don’t suggest getting frisky in my car.” 

Sherlock stood up tall and looked his brother in the eye. “I assure you, Mycroft, that we will not be getting frisky.” Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders. “John is not gay.” John fell against him, a smile on his face. 

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, but the sight of John cuddling up to Sherlock surprised him so much that he found himself at a loss for words. 


	6. Now What?

John worked his way around the body parts in the kitchen as he tried to prepare dinner. He couldn’t imagine a fridge without a severed head, a blender that wasn’t filled with eyeball puree (the one time John was well and truly grossed out and started a row with his flatmate), or a microwave without random body parts, the most recent being the (recovered) fingers. Sherlock’s journals and other random bits of his research covered the kitchen table, which was scarred and pitted due to his experiments. While unconventional, John couldn’t imagine a kitchen that felt more like home. 

As he cooked, he let his mind wander over the events of the past few days. He hadn’t planned on ever discussing the nightmares with Sherlock, because he didn’t know how he would even begin to. He was also afraid of Sherlock’s reaction when he found out that he had the lead role in them. Apparently, his subconscious had taken care of that for him. 

And when the hell did Sherlock become so touchy-feely? The consulting detective never showed affection, or touched any one, except for Mrs. Hudson. It started during the walk back from Regent’s Park when they’d argued over the milk. Sherlock had made a calculated comment about John’s outburst and John had gone along with it. He wasn’t sexually attracted to Sherlock - that much he knew - but he didn’t want to be with anyone else. It was time to accept that Sherlock was his everything.

#

Sherlock’s stomach grumbled as he smelled dinner cooking in the kitchen. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. As he waited for John to finish cooking, he replayed the afternoon over and over in his head, filing away the important bits in his mind palace. He had touched John several times, in public, and John had not once shied away. Each time they had touched, that unfamiliar feeling came rushing to the surface. It was starting to frighten him.

He had told John the truth - he didn’t know what he was doing, he didn’t know how he felt, but he was relieved when John said he didn’t want to kiss him. He’d also tried to show John what he had missed during their first dinner at Angelo’s. Women definitely didn’t do it for him, men were questionable, but the Work. The Work was his life… and now? Now John was, too. 

When he thought about being poolside with John and Moriarty, he got sick to his stomach. There was enough explosive material on his blogger to take out an entire city block but John had launched himself at Moriarty in an effort to save Sherlock’s life. That was the moment everything had changed between them. That was the moment he knew he couldn’t live without John. That had to be the cause of these feelings, but how to prove it?

#

“I had thought about making a pot roast, but the last time I saw the slow cooker, it had feet in it.” John paused. “I should really start keeping a list of which appliances I need to replace and then mark the ones you use for experiments so we don’t get confused.” He watched Sherlock inspecting the food. “Eat. I can hear your stomach rumbling.”  
Sherlock tried the chicken piccata John had set in front of him. It was amazing. John was an excellent cook and Sherlock couldn’t think of a good reason why he’d passed up so many meals over the last year. “This is very good, John. I’ll buy you a new slow cooker tomorrow.”

“And a blender. And a microwave. And maybe a mini fridge for your experiments?” John teased. 

“Why are you still here?” Sherlock was blunt and straight to the point. “A normal person would have left when they saw the severed head in the fridge. No one in their right mind would live with me after the eyeball experiment.” 

John swallowed hard. The eyeballs. He had to bring up the eyeballs. “Let’s not talk about your experiments while we’re eating. Besides, as you’re so fond of reminding me, I am an idiot.” 

“I may have underestimated you. Repeatedly.” 

“Did I ever tell you what Mycroft said to me the day he kidnapped me and tried to get me to spy on you?” 

“No.” Sherlock got up and served himself a second helping. 

“He basically noticed that I’d moved in quickly and started solving crimes with you. He asked if he could expect ‘a happy announcement’ within the week, or something along those lines. Obviously there’s something about you that I’m missing.” John put his fork down and looked Sherlock in the eyes. “You said you were flattered when you thought I was hitting on you. Angelo thought we were on a date… and you never answered me at the crime scene.” 

“You never asked me a proper question, and I certainly didn’t want Mycroft to know my answer if you had.” 

“Right.” John swallowed hard. “You said you were celibate. I always thought you were asexual.” 

Sherlock sniffed. “Most people think that. It’s a common mistake. Next question.” 

“Are you attracted to women?” 

“No.” 

“Not even Irene Adler?” 

“I said no, John. Next question.” 

“Are you attracted to men?” 

“I experimented while at uni. It interfered with my concentration and I decided that it was pointless. Am I attracted to you, specifically, in a sexual manner? No. Do I like touching you? Yes. It feels good. Did I miss anything?” 

John blushed. Why did Sherlock always have that effect on him? “And you say you can’t figure me out. You didn’t miss a single question. Except for one.” 

Sherlock sighed. This was just like not knowing Harry was John’s sister. “What did I miss this time?” 

“Why did you decide to start touching me? That row in the park… that was different. Even for you.” 

“I was curious. That was an experiment. I didn’t think you’d play along.” 

“What did I say after Baskerville, Sherlock? I’m not your damn guinea pig!” 

“I didn’t do anything that could be harmful!” 

“This time.” John glared at him. Sherlock, to his credit, shut up and focused on eating.

#

John tried to read the new book he had picked up at the library, but Sherlock’s sulking was distracting him. He still couldn’t figure out why Sherlock had felt the urge to “experiment” on him in the park, and while he didn’t exactly mind this particular one, he really didn’t want Sherlock getting in the habit of making John part of his experiments. “I’m not mad at you anymore.”

“Good.” Sherlock didn’t move from his place on the couch. “I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.” 

“You’re such a child.” John paused for a minute considering his next comment. “You do still owe me an explanation. What made you decide to start touching me? You never touch anyone unless you have to, except for Mrs. Hudson. Why me? Why now?” 

Sherlock sighed. “I see you do it all the time. With Molly. With Lestrade. I wanted to know what it felt like.” 

John let Sherlock’s words sink in. “Apparently you like touching me because you haven’t stopped.” 

“I didn’t know what I was missing. Obviously.”


	7. Sleeping With Sherlock

John had gone to bed several hours ago, but Sherlock had remained awake. He wasn’t sure what was going on between them. His inability to deduce the status of their relationship was bothering him. What exactly did Sherlock-and-John mean any way? Everyone thought they were dating, lovers, even. It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but there was something between them. Something tangible. Something he couldn’t describe, but felt with every fiber of his being. 

He could hear John’s restlessness. Now that he knew he was the cause, he just needed to figure out how to stop the nightmares. He slowly walked upstairs, listening to John mumbling in his sleep. He said Moriarty’s name and then choked back a cry. Sherlock ran up the remaining stairs, instantly sorry he had brought up the confrontation with Moriarty. There was no doubt in his mind that tonight he was directly responsible for the contents of John’s nightmares. 

A window dimly illuminated the room, and in the pale light, Sherlock could clearly see John’s tears and shaking body. He didn’t like the idea of sleeping in the chair again, so he did what felt natural: He crawled into John’s bed and spooned him. “John, I’m right here with you. Moriarty’s gone.” 

John rolled over to face him, and Sherlock turned so that he was lying on his back. John rested his head on the detective’s chest right over his heart and flung an arm over him. “Sherlock?” 

“Yes, John?” 

“You’re in my bed.” 

“I am. Go back to sleep.” 

“OK.” John snuggled tighter to Sherlock, apparently pleased with that answer. In response, the detective wrapped his arm around his friend. This felt good. This felt right. He smiled to himself. He was starting to make sense of the data.

#

Sherlock woke up, unsure of where he was. As he shook off the cobwebs, he realized he was in John’s bed. With John. Who was wrapped around him. Who he was holding onto.

Sherlock had slept soundly. For the second night in a row. Fascinating. Sharing a bed with John relaxed him to the point where his mind shut off. Would he be able to make this a habit? Would John mind? They both seemed to sleep better at the very least. 

He looked down at his sleeping flatmate. John looked so relaxed and… happy? Yes, that was definitely a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. With his free hand, he stroked John’s cheek gently, curious as to how he’d respond. John hummed and tightened his grip on Sherlock. 

After a while, John stirred. He didn’t pull away when he noticed that he had basically pinned Sherlock to the bed. Instead, a real smile took over his face. “What would people say if they knew we slept together?” 

“No more than they already do.” Sherlock paused, unsure of how to continue. “You look very peaceful, very happy, very relaxed when you sleep. It’s… nice.” 

“OK. I’ve a new case for us. The mystery of the missing Sherlock.” John rolled off of Sherlock and yawned. “You are definitely not the annoying dick I’ve lived with for the last year. You’re… almost… dare I say… human?” 

“Sherlock and his blogger. Missing in action. That would be a good case.” 

John returned to his position on top of the detective. “You slept here? With me? Like this?” 

“Yes. I deduced that the best way to stop your nightmares was to prove to you that I was here. I wasn’t originally going to join you in your bed, but that chair wasn’t made for sleeping.” Sherlock played with John’s hair, curious as to whether or not it was as soft as it looked. It was soft. Very soft. 

“I’m glad you’re here.” John practically purred, surprising both of them. “I like this.”

#

Sherlock was busy researching something on John’s laptop while he ate. Despite John’s best efforts, Sherlock refused to eat this morning. He’d already eaten more in the past two days than he usually did in a week. Instead, he looked at John over the laptop, trying to glean some bit of information about last night from his appearance. John was wearing his oatmeal jumper again: he needed something familiar, something comforting. Eggs and bacon: also comforting. Need for comfort: a bit thrown off by waking up next to Sherlock and liking it. Not reading the paper: he hadn’t been able to focus on it. His cell phone resting next to him: expecting a call. Lestrade. Possibly Mycroft.

John’s text alert sounded and he glanced at it.   
**TELL MY BROTHER I HAVE SECURED A FROZEN PIG AND A**  
 **WOOD CHIPPER. I’LL SEND A CAR. BE READY IN 10 MINUTES. - MYCROFT**

“Why does Mycroft insist on texting you? He never texts people.” 

“Because he knows I won’t answer if he calls. Your brother’s not stupid, Sherlock.” John glanced at the message. “He’s managed to get you a pig and a wood chipper. There’ll be a car here in 10 minutes. You might want to get dressed.” 

Sherlock jumped up from the table, shouting “OH! IT’S CHRISTMAS!” John liked seeing Sherlock excited by a case - especially a complicated murder - no matter how inappropriate it was. He tried to keep him calm (“You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off.”), but some days were harder than others. It was the same with his experiments - the weirder, the better. Sherlock often claimed to be a high-functioning sociopath, but John was sure he might be a little psychotic as well. Not that that would have changed the way John felt about him. 

John rolled his eyes when Sherlock reappeared downstairs. Why the man didn’t own a shirt that fit him was a mystery. He was wearing his purple shirt again. The one where the buttons were so strained, John expected them to pop off at any time. Sherlock flung his coat at him. “Come on, John! I want to see what a wood chipper can do to a pig!” 

John sighed, but followed him out the door. Despite his apparent lack of enthusiasm, he really wanted to see that, too.


	8. Case Closed

Angelo placed two menus and a candle on the table. Ever since their first meal there, he had insisted on the candle. John smiled warmly at the man. If only he knew what they’d been up to in the past few days. “You are going to eat, right?” 

“Eating is boring.” 

“You just got to solve a murder by shoving a frozen pig into a bloody wood chipper. I know eating can’t compare to that, but let’s celebrate, OK?” He reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s hand without thinking. His thumb rubbed the other man’s hand. “That was easily the second most disgusting experiment you’ve ever done while we’ve been together. This is a special day.” Let’s celebrate? Together? Special day? Where the hell did that come from? 

“Really, John? A special day? Let’s celebrate?” He looked down at their hands. “I’m not shagging you after dinner.” A huge smile took over Sherlock’s face. John recognized it as ‘his’ smile; the smile only John got to see. 

John laughed and moved to let go of Sherlock’s hand. He tightened his grip and stared at John, daring him to break the contact again. “That’s really terrible, isn’t it? I just sounded like I’m going to wine you, dine you, and shag you until you can’t walk straight.” He winked at the man holding his hand hostage. “It’s just a shame I’m not gay.” 

“You keep saying that and maybe one day you’ll believe it.” John swallowed hard. Only Sherlock with that deep, seductive, smooth as silk voice, could make that sentence sound sexy. “Your pulse is elevated,” he whispered as he let go of John’s hand and picked up his menu. “I guess I could go for a little… something.” 

John blushed. “Why are you doing this to me?” 

“Because I can. Really, John. Stop being so predictable. It’s…” 

“Boring.” John copied Sherlock’s hand wave. “You know I’m an idiot. You shouldn’t expect so much of me. You know I’ll never be that unpredictable.” 

“You surprise me every day. I’d say you’re very unpredictable.”

#

John would never be able to explain how he wound up on the couch with the detective’s head in his lap, but there they were, watching some procedural cop show. He was amazed at how well behaved Sherlock was being. Normally, he paced the room and pointed out the inaccuracies in the program. Neither of them had said a word since leaving Angelo’s, not even after sharing dessert and earning a wink from the restaurateur. They had held hands in the cab, though. That simple gesture said more than words could, any way.

This was weird. Very weird. Now that Sherlock had touched him, they both couldn’t get enough of it. He softly ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and massaged his scalp. The detective hummed softly, making John smile. 

Sherlock knew the Doctor had gentle hands, but he was amazed at how gentle they really were. The way they touched his scalp - he’d never felt anything like that before, and he didn’t want John to stop. Why had he built such a wall? Oh, right. Mycroft. His parents. Well, he didn’t live with them any more. He lived with John and he could change for John. He would change for John. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of John’s hands. He felt butterflies in his stomach. The effect John was having on him was starting to become clearer, but he was still struggling to understand what it really meant. 

John had gotten lost in the TV show and hadn’t noticed Sherlock falling asleep. He gently shook him awake. “You should go to bed. The couch isn’t the most comfortable place to sleep.” 

“Can we sleep in my room tonight?” Sherlock stretched and yawned. 

“Can we do what?” 

“Sleep. In my room.” John could almost see the snark dripping off of Sherlock’s words. “Together.” 

“Um, OK.” He paused, considering his next words. “What is this? What are we doing?” 

“We’re going to bed.” 

“We’re sleeping together! It’s not normal for two blokes to just get in bed together!” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I sleep. You don’t have nightmares. It may not be, as you say, normal, but it is mutually beneficial. Am I correct?” 

“Sod off.” John stormed off to his room. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do after he put his pajamas on, but he knew a part of him wanted to join Sherlock in his room. He slammed his closet door shut and sat on his bed. Was it possible to have an intimate, physical, relationship without sex? With Sherlock of all people? It seemed like they’d already started to. Hand holding, sleeping together, scalp massages, cuddling on the couch. They couldn’t look more like a couple in love if they tried. 

Sherlock’s door was closed when John finally made up his mind. He knocked lightly before pushing the door open. The detective was sitting in bed, writing in one of his many notebooks. John could hear the scratching of his pen as he poked his head in. “Can I come in?” 

“I’ve been waiting for you.” He finished writing and then closed the notebook. “Come on, then.” He lay on his back, arm extended. Once John had settled in, Sherlock sighed happily. “So. We’re making this a habit?” 

“I guess so. I can’t wait to see Lestrade’s face at the next crime scene.” 

“He’ll be thrilled. He’s going to win the office pool.” 

“How do you… never mind.”


	9. A New Day

John woke up the next morning with his nose nestled in Sherlock’s hair. He was playing the role of the big spoon, and Sherlock’s hand was holding his. This was still confusing, but he couldn’t deny that it felt so right. Last night, while he had been in his room trying to decide whether or not to join Sherlock, he had accepted the fact that he was never going to be with a woman again and that he had a lifetime of tossing off in the shower to look forward to. Surprisingly, he found that the more he thought about it, the less he cared. He’d proven time and time again that nothing could compare to being with Sherlock. 

He moved slowly, afraid to wake his… partner. Yes, partner. That was a good word. Asleep, Sherlock looked much younger than he was and not at all like the moody, unpredictable sociopath John had come to love. John decided he’d have to wake up before him every morning just so he could watch him sleep. 

After a while, Sherlock rolled over and looked at John. “I’m glad you decided to join me. Nightmares?” 

“No. No nightmares. Did you sleep well?” 

“Very well. How long were you watching me sleep?” 

“Not long. Shall I go downstairs and start breakfast?” 

“If you must. This is very warm and comfortable.” 

“I know, but I’m hungry and I have to work today.” 

“You don’t have to go to work if you don’t want to.” 

“I don’t want to, but I need to. It makes me feel useful.” 

“Useful?” 

“Yes. Not only do I help people, I earn money that is outside of what you make on the cases. I like being financially independent. I don’t want to use your money for my things.” 

“Shut up. You help me solve those cases. It’s your money, too.” 

“I don’t do anything but stand by your side and tell you how brilliant you are.” Sherlock opened his mouth to contradict John, but the look on his face forced Sherlock to shut up. “It’s true. When have I ever done anything to help?” 

“You knew how to remove carpet.” 

“You could have looked it up on the internet and besides, you guessed that he used the wood chipper. I wouldn’t have thought of that. I’m not that… creative.” Scary was the word he wanted to use, but creative would do. Sherlock could definitely be very scary when he wanted to. All John had to do was remember the criminal that Sherlock had thrown out the window several times. Despite his knowledge of the undue violence Sherlock was capable of, John trusted him implicitly with his life. 

“John, enough!” Sherlock shouted. John was immediately taken aback. “I’m sorry that I keep calling you an idiot. Apparently, you’ve taken it to heart.”  
John decided to let the comment slide. “I’m not calling off work.” 

“I’m not letting you go.” Sherlock flung his body over John’s. 

“Is this really necessary?” He tried to pull Sherlock off of him, but he was much stronger than he looked. “Sherlock, stop this!” 

“No. Where’s your mobile?” 

“In my room. Where’s yours?” 

“I don’t know.” 

John rolled his eyes. “So one of us will have to get up to call in some crappy excuse to Sarah. It’s amazing she still lets me work with her considering she almost died while out on a date with me. Not to mention all the days I’ve slept at my desk, left early or called out because of a case.” 

“You’re not calling off work. You’re going to quit.” 

“I can’t stay here with you all day, every day. I’ll go mad.” John looked into his eyes. “Sorry, Sherlock, but I can’t. Now let me up.” 

“Fine.” John sighed. Sulky Sherlock was back. Wonderful. 

“Don’t destroy the flat while I’m at work, OK? You freak Mrs. Hudson out when you shoot holes in the wall. You hear me? No guns, no redecorating, no using all the milk. Go to Bart’s and have Molly get you some more body parts for your experiments.” 

John extracted himself from Sherlock’s grip. The thought of quitting his job and spending all day curled up in bed with Sherlock was very appealing. He rather liked this new relationship paradigm.

#

“You look different, John. Are you and Sherlock doing OK?”

John swallowed hard unsure of what to say. She was the first woman to point out his unusual relationship with the detective and he wanted to confide in her, but wasn’t sure if he should. “Yes. You could say that.” 

“Did Sherlock get a case?” She handed him a cup of coffee before pouring herself one. 

“Solved it in a few hours. A record, even for him.” 

“Must be bored out of his mind, then.” 

“He was before this case came about. I don’t know what I’ll go home to. He’s… well… you’ve met him.” 

“Yes, I have. Unfortunately.” She laughed. “I still can’t figure out why you live with him.” 

“He’s not completely terrible to live with. He has his moments.” 

Sarah smiled. “You mean, like when you two are…” 

It was an unfunny joke and one he was tired of hearing. “It’s not like that between us, and you know it,” he snapped. He sighed, ashamed at his outburst. “You’re right, though. Something is going on between us, and I don’t know what it is. He’s started… touching… me.” John grimaced. That came out very wrong. 

“Is Sherlock touching you in a bad place?” She burst out laughing. When she saw the look on John’s face, she calmed down quickly. “You’re serious? I didn’t think he was the affectionate type.” 

“We hold hands, and uh, err, we sleep in the same bed together.” He could feel the heat in his cheeks. “It’s nice. He’s kind of starved for affection, you know? He’s… different and we’re happy, but isn’t it weird? Two mates, cuddling on the couch while they watch telly?” 

“John, if it were anyone else but you and Sherlock, then, yes. You two live in your own little world and you’ve connected on such a deep level that it doesn’t surprise me at all.” She smiled sadly. “You two have always made me feel like the other woman. I guess it’s a good thing you’ve decided on each other. Just don’t expect to come over to my place and kip on the sofa every time you two argue.” 

John laughed. “Is that your blessing, then?” Before Sarah could answer, his text alert sounded. He read the text, not at all surprised it was from Sherlock. 

**I’M BORED - SH**   


“What? Texting you already? Doesn’t he know you just got here?” She headed off to start her day, leaving John in the small kitchen trying to decide just how he was going to murder Sherlock when he got home.

**I’M HUNGRY - SH**   
**I MISS YOU - SH**   
**COME HOME - SH**   


It was going to be one of those days. John shook his head and headed to his office. He looked over his patient files before he gave in and responded to Sherlock’s text.

**NO. - JW**   


John sighed and settled into work. Thankfully, he had a light day ahead of him and the first few patients would go quickly. Before he saw the first one, the text alert went off again. Instead of looking at it, he shoved the phone into his desk and locked the drawer. Sherlock was going to drive him mad today.

#

After work, John let himself into 221B Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson promptly greeted him. “I don’t know what he’s gotten into up there, but I’ve heard explosions and banging for the better part of the day. Do be careful, dear.”

“I will.” John grimaced and prepared himself for whatever his crazy flatmate had gotten into. He paused at the top of the stairs. “Sherlock?” 

“Kitchen!” 

John looked around the kitchen and saw all new appliances. The old ones were piled in the corner, each one neatly labeled “EXPERIMENTS ONLY.” Sherlock was sitting at the table calmly eating one of Mrs. Hudson’s famous scones, a mug of tea at his side. “I did some shopping. I hope you didn’t want to pick anything out.” 

John opened the fridge. There wasn’t a single body part in there. Just food. And milk. Lots of milk. He fought to keep the smile from taking over his face. “No. It’s fine. I’m just completely gobsmacked.” He turned to the cabinets and drawers, opening each one in turn. “New silverware, even.” 

“I replaced everything. Even scrubbed the shelves and cupboards.” 

John kept spinning around the kitchen, not believing his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson heard explosions.” 

“Ah, yes. My homemade cleaning solution. Not very good at cleaning, I’m afraid, but it makes an excellent explosive.” Sherlock smiled. 

John sat at the table and looked around, unwilling to accept what he was seeing. “Have you heard from Lestrade yet?” 

“No.” Sherlock finished the scone and stood up. “Text him and ask him if he has any cold cases.” 

“Text him yourself.” John grabbed the paper and headed towards the living room. He settled into his chair and began to read. “You certainly didn’t have any problems texting earlier.” 

“That’s not the point.” Sherlock lay on the couch. “The point is that you were at work and I was lonely.” Gone were the days when John would leave and he hadn’t noticed. John’s absence in the flat had been overwhelming. It was all Sherlock had been able to think about. 

“We went over this this morning. I need to work.” John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to will away the headache forming behind his eyes. “I need the money.” 

“Mycroft paid us. US. As in you and I. In fact, I’ve already transferred what was left after the appliances into your bank account.” 

John wanted to ask how Sherlock knew his bank account information, but decided it wasn’t worth it. If Sherlock could hack into his computer - even with a password randomly generated by some website - getting his bank account information wouldn’t be too much of a stretch. “Sherlock, Mycroft paid you. You’re the one that solved the case. I didn’t do anything but stand there. I can’t accept it. I don’t deserve it.” 

“That’s not true at all. You deserve it.” Sherlock rolled over so that his back was facing John. He was still fully dressed in his suit and shoes, and John wondered how it was the least bit comfortable. “For all the times you’ve run off with me, shot people for me, saved my life, been the catalyst that helped me solve cases, and especially for not hating me after the Baskerville case. I know how you worry about paying your half of the bills. I don’t want you to worry.” 

John got up and sat on the edge of the couch, pressing his back against Sherlock’s. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but he liked the warmth coming from the other man. “That’s… um… er… very nice of you.” 

“I know it is.” He rolled over and sat up next to John. He wrapped his arm around the doctor’s shoulders and pulled him tight. 

“I really need to talk to Lestrade about opening a missing persons case. I’ve managed to lose my Sherlock. I don’t know who you are, but you are not my flatmate.” 

“Your Sherlock?” 

“Well, if I’m your blogger, you must be my Sherlock.” John leaned his head against Sherlock. 

“You’re more than just my blogger.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you? Really?” Sherlock lay down and pulled John down next to him. “You’re my friend, John. I don’t have friends, remember? I’ve only got one.” There was a pause while they got comfortable. “You’re my best friend.” 

“By default.” John laughed, secure in the young man’s arms. “Easy when you’ve only got one friend.”


	10. Another Case

Even though they had managed to work on quite a few cases since Mycroft’s wood chipper murder, Sherlock was about to go crazy again. Thankfully, Lestrade called with a new case just in time. Sherlock hadn’t been interested in taking it at first, but after John threatened to take away his nicotine patches, he agreed to work on it. 

“Well, if it isn’t the freak and his puppy dog,” Sargent Sally Donovan said by way of greeting. She watched as Sherlock held up the crime scene tape for John before following him into the car park. Lestrade wouldn’t accept her argument that that was Sherlock’s version of holding the door for the Doctor. If he had, she would have won the office pool a long time ago. 

“She spent the night at Anderson’s again. She smells like his shampoo,” Sherlock whispered. 

“How do you do that? Remember what someone’s shampoo smells like?” 

“I observe, John. It’s not hard.” The words, ‘I can always tell when you’re near me by the scent of your shampoo’ danced on the tip of his tongue, but he kept them to himself. 

“For you, maybe.” They walked into the room and Sherlock made a beeline for the corpse while John hung back to talk to Lestrade. “Hey, Greg, what are we looking at?” 

“A woman, possibly in her mid-thirties, happily married by all reports, she was stabbed before being shot several times. The popular theory right now is that a woman did it. A scorned lover type thing.” 

“A woman?” John quickly thought about everything he’d learned from Sherlock over the past year. “I suppose so, but women are less likely to kill from a close distance like a stabbing would require.” 

“Sherlock’s rubbing off on you.” Lestrade grimaced. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing.” 

“Bit not good, yes.” John cleared his throat, eager to change the subject. “Do you think there was a relationship involved? An affair? What else would cause this?” 

“We’re still looking into that. So far, Mrs. Williams’ life seems spotless. Loving husband, two kids that they could afford to send to a public school, high level executive… never seen anyone less likely to be a victim of this sort of crime.” Lestrade paused, looking back at Sherlock, who had started to call for John. “I believe you’re being summoned.” 

John thanked the Detective Inspector for his help and moved to Sherlock’s side. “John, I think she was unconscious before she was stabbed and shot. Do you see anything that would indicate that?” 

“You didn’t notice anything?” 

“Of course, I did. I just wanted your opinion.” 

“Stupid git.” 

“Idiot.” He rested his hand lightly on John’s back, enjoying the slight shock that ran through his fingers into the very core of him. “Look hard, John. You can barely see it. Anderson would never notice it.” 

“I heard that, Sherlock!” 

“SHUT UP, ANDERSON. HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU YOU LOWER THE IQ OF THE ENTIRE COUNTRY EVERY TIME YOU OPEN YOUR MOUTH?” Sherlock roared. Realizing what he did, he turned to John. “Not good?” 

“No. Not good at all.” John moved around the body carefully. “She has an injury to the back of her head, but that’s more likely caused by the fall onto the concrete floor.” 

Sherlock nodded, pleased with John. “I didn’t see anything obvious, either. Look a little deeper.” 

John knelt down so he could get a better look at her hands and arms. Sherlock joined him on the ground. “No defensive wounds.” That earned him a literal pat on the back, making a small smile appear on his face. Sherlock’s heart leapt with the knowledge that he caused that smile. 

John removed the woman’s scarf carefully. There were very faint bruises on her neck. Sherlock was right. Anderson probably wouldn’t have caught them during his first look at the body. “She was strangled. Look at the bruising, Sherlock. Those are thumbs.” He gestured at two of the marks on her neck. “Too big to be a woman’s. There was a man involved.” 

“Very good, John. Fact: we have bruises hinting at strangulation, possibly by a man judging from the size of them. Fact: there is a dead woman who was stabbed before being shot. Fact: she was unconscious before the stabbing because there aren’t any defensive wounds.” 

Sherlock stood up and began pacing, his fingers pulling at his curls. “This doesn’t make sense. It’s not enough. There has to be more. There’s always more.” John walked over to him and pulled at his arm gently. “Stop pacing.” He stopped and looked at John. That was a first. “You’re absolutely brilliant, Sherlock. You’ll find it,” he whispered. “The husband was having an affair? He and his mistress decided to kill the wife?” 

“Boring! This case is barely a three.” He paused for a moment. “LESTRADE! What aren’t you telling me?” 

The DI walked over to the two men. “What do you mean, what am I not telling you? I’ve told John everything I know now. You were told what we knew at the time I called you.” 

Sherlock snapped his fingers and whirled around. “This isn’t the first murder. There’s been another one. A little different. Just enough to throw Scotland Yard off. Think, Lestrade. Was there another stabbing and shooting recently?” 

“Yes. A woman. Looked very… similar to Mrs. Williams.” 

“Is the body at Bart’s?” John asked while Sherlock went back to his pacing. 

“Yes. I don’t believe they’ve done the autopsy yet.” 

“Then, I guess I know where we’re headed next.” He turned back to Sherlock and grabbed his hand. “We need to go to Bart’s.” 

Sherlock looked down at their hands, intertwining his fingers with John’s while he did so. “Then let’s get out of here.” As they walked past Lestrade, John couldn’t help but smile. Sherlock winked at him. “Congratulations, Detective Inspector. Try not to spend it all at the pub.”

#

They had spent hours at the morgue, more than John would have thought possible, pouring over every inch of the body. The only thing the two women had in common was the fact that they looked very similar. Sherlock had made a beeline to the couch as soon as they arrived back at Baker Street. Stretched out, lying on his back, his fingers steepled under his chin: his thinking position. John knew better than to bother him.

Even though he knew Sherlock wouldn’t drink it, he still made an extra cup of tea and placed it on the coffee table near the couch. He even made dinner for the detective, but wrapped it up and put it in the fridge. Sherlock could always heat it up later, or John could bring it to the surgery for lunch. 

After he ate his dinner, he crept upstairs to his room. He couldn’t watch the telly while Sherlock was thinking, but he could read his book. Eventually, Sherlock would yell at him for reading too loudly, but in the meantime, he’d read. He’d turned the ringer off on his mobile, in case anyone tried to contact him. He didn’t want the noise to distract Sherlock. When the display lit up a few hours later, he grabbed it hoping it was Lestrade with more information. 

**I NEED YOU - SH**

John sighed. He couldn’t just say it like a normal person. He marked his place in the book, set it on his bedside table and walked downstairs to the sitting room. “Sherlock?” 

“Shut up. I’m thinking.” Really, John thought. He put his book down for this? 

“You’re the one who texted me.” 

“I said, shut up. I’m thinking.” John walked over to the couch and sat on the floor in front of it. He was positive if he sat in his chair, Sherlock would get upset. The chair would creak too loudly or something. He was used to this behavior, cherished it in some way, but it pissed him off all the same. 

They sat in silence for a while before Sherlock dropped his arm onto John. He curled it around the older man the best that he could and John held his hand, effectively locking his arm in place. “Mmmmm,” Sherlock purred. “The first stabbing and shooting is related. I know it, John. Hair found on both bodies seem to confirm that.” 

“You stole evidence again?” 

“No. I borrowed it.” John could just see the smug smile on his face. “Anderson didn’t see the hair or it wouldn’t have been there. SOMEONE needs to do his job.” 

“Is there a reason you hate Anderson so much?” 

“Don’t distract me, John.” Sherlock pulled his arm back. 

“You’re the one who called me down here. If I’m such a distraction, why did you do that?” 

“Because you talk and my skull doesn’t. Don’t be an idiot.” 

“I love you, too, Sherlock.” His words were dripping with sarcasm but he had a brief moment of panic when he realized that he had actually said them out loud. 

“I know you do.” The words hung heavy in the air. Both men sat there, lost in their thoughts, wondering what - if anything - this meant for their friendship, for their future. John figured Sherlock had deduced what he meant to the Doctor a long time ago, but it shocked him to realize that when Sherlock called HIM an idiot, it was in a softer, warmer, tone than he used when calling other people idiots. John knew that was probably as close to a declaration of love as he was ever going to get from the younger man. 

After almost an hour of sitting in silence, Sherlock sat up suddenly. “THAT’S IT!” 

“What?” John twisted so he could look at Sherlock. “What did you think of?” 

“I think the husband, maybe the girlfriend, hired a hit man. He didn’t know who he was going after the first time, so the first woman was an accident. When he did find the right woman… but why strangle, stab and shoot? That seems unnecessary.” 

“I don’t know.” John yawned and then looked at his watch. “I’ve got an early shift at the surgery tomorrow. If you need to play your violin, please just do it softly.” He stood up. “There’s a plate in the fridge if you want it. Try to eat or sleep, or both, OK?” He gently ruffled the detective’s hair, giving in to the urge to lean down and kiss the top of his head. After he did it, he began to worry. It felt right, but would he be pushing the boundaries of their relationship? 

He was almost out of the room when Sherlock called him back. He turned around to find the detective back in his thinking position. “John?” He opened his eyes and twisted his head. “Thank you.” 

“For?” 

“For being my John.” Sherlock closed his eyes again and returned to his mind palace. 

It wasn’t until John crawled into his bed that he realized Sherlock had called him ‘my John’ as opposed to his usual ‘my blogger.’


	11. A Night Out

“Over here!” Lestrade waved John over. “First pint’s on me.” 

“Thanks, mate.” John slid into the booth and took a sip of his beer. He had a feeling he was going to need it. “What’s up?” 

“Where’s Sherlock tonight? I thought he’d come with you.” 

John smirked. “He’s at the flat. He deduced that you wanted to find out about our, uh, err, relationship, and he didn’t feel the need to be here. As the other half, I was more than adequate a source of gossip fodder for the Yard. His words. Not mine.” 

“He’s not wrong.” Unable to look John in the eye, he grabbed the menu and looked at it. Once he couldn’t stall any longer, he turned back to John. “So? Despite your flatmate’s insistence that we’re all morons, my staff and I do notice things from time to time. It didn’t hurt that you two weren’t exactly subtle the other day.” 

“Subtle is not a word in Sherlock’s vocabulary. You of all people should know that.” John took another sip of his beer, steeling himself for what was to come. “Before you ask, no. We are not shagging. We have no plans to. As it turns out, Sherlock is celibate,” he shot Lestrade a look. “I know. It sounds weird, but Sherlock barely eats, and practically never sleeps. Denying himself sex must come very easy. Besides…” 

“I’m not gay!” The two men said in unison. John laughed. He felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders. For the first time, he didn’t mind the teasing. 

“But don’t you miss…” Lestrade started. 

“A bit. Yeah. I know nobody believes Sherlock has a heart, or is even human, but he does. He’s shown it to me loads of times, and he’s really been starved for basic human contact. I don’t think he realized it until recently, but now that he’s got a taste of it…” John trailed off. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just feels like a natural continuation of our friendship.” 

“Well, whatever it is you two are doing, it appears to be working. With the exception of his outburst at Anderson, he’s starting to change and you’re more relaxed. Are you sure you’re not shagging?” 

John shook his head, laughing. “Positive.”

#

“He asked you the minute you got to the pub, didn’t he?” Sherlock was standing at the window, his back to John. “Let me guess. He’s amazed that we’re not shagging.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice had a warning tone. “He’s just curious. Most of Scotland Yard is after that show we put on at the crime scene the other day. Before it was just gossip, now… now they have evidence that we’re not just friends.” 

“It’s nobody’s business.” 

“We made it their business when we showed up at Jennifer Wilson’s crime scene together. Remember? The pink lady? Now that we’ve held hands and cuddled in public, we’ve really made it their business. Why are you so upset?” 

“I don’t want them to reduce what we have to mere shagging.” Sherlock’s voice carried a hint of a pout. He’d finally figured it out. He loved the Doctor, but he still wasn’t able to handle the emotions behind that feeling. 

John shook his head, then walked over to the younger man. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and rested his head against his back. “It doesn’t matter to me what people think, Sherlock. What matters to me is this. You and me.” He squeezed him tight against his body. 

Sherlock turned around and embraced John. The two men stayed like that for several minutes before Sherlock pushed John away and looked at him. He’d had two pints at the pub: nowhere near close to getting him the least bit drunk. He smelled faintly like pub food: he hadn’t eaten, but Lestrade had. Fish and chips by the smell of it. He was relaxed: not the effect of the alcohol, but because the conversation with Lestrade hadn’t bothered him. Interesting. John was comfortable with whatever it was they were doing. Sherlock was positive that meant that the words ‘I’m not gay’ were gone from his vocabulary. 

He pulled the Doctor back in tight to him. He needed to feel John’s solidness, to have John anchor him. These feelings were still too much for him to process. No wonder he and Mycroft had distanced themselves from emotions. (“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”) “I’m afraid, John,” he whispered. “I’ve never felt like this before.” 

John squeezed him tight, a smile on his face. “I know.”


	12. Fast Forward

“On behalf of the City of London and myself, I would like to welcome you on this special occasion where Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John H. Watson will publicly declare their commitment to each other.” As the officiant spoke his opening, John shifted nervously. He’d always thought he’d be nervous on his wedding day, but he never thought that he’d be getting married to Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock smiled at John, trying to comfort the older man without words. There really wasn’t any need to be nervous. All they were doing was making their partnership legal in the eyes of the law. Nothing was going to change between them. It seemed to work because John broke into a huge smile and calmed down considerably. 

It definitely hadn’t been the most romantic proposal. John had been surprised when Sherlock had brought up the topic one morning over tea. The younger man brought up the point that as legal partners, they could take advantage of the ability to have certain rights they wouldn’t normally have, like next of kin rights should one of them wind up in hospital. John hadn’t been able to argue with Sherlock and agreed to marry him. Besides, they definitely were a couple. An odd couple, to be sure, but John wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Needless to say, neither man was surprised at the number of people who had told them that they were amazed it had taken this long. 

There had been a small number of people at the ceremony and Sherlock, in a rare moment of kindness, had decided to invite Anderson. John never failed to smile whenever he passed by their ‘official’ wedding portrait. Sherlock and he were surrounded by their friends and family: Mycroft, Harry, Sarah, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Donovan, Dimmock and… Anderson. Even more surprising than accepting Anderson’s presence in their photo, Sherlock had leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of John’s head. 

Caught on film and the perfect reminder of what their life outside of crime fighting was - a series of tender moments between best friends.

#

Much like their wedding, Sherlock was the one who’d brought up the idea of children. In typical Sherlock fashion, he’d prepared his argument before approaching John with it. He had spent hours researching genetics and looking for a surrogate who looked enough like him so that a combination of the woman and John would create a child that could pass as unequivocally theirs.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. We’re still running around after criminals and solving cases. It’s one thing to be married to you, but a child? That’s a major commitment. I work at the surgery, you spend hours at Bart’s, and we spend a lot of time running around London. You leave your experiments all over the flat. Maybe we should start with a fish.” John set his fork down and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m aware of what having a child would entail, John.” Sherlock got up and flopped on the couch. “Did you even stop to think that I would be willing to make the necessary changes? Children are important to you. Therefore, they are important to me.” He sat up and grabbed an ashtray off the coffee table. “Need I remind you I nicked this ashtray from Buckingham Palace because you said you were fighting the urge to?”

#

Sherlock put down the book he’d been reading to Hamish (“An Illustrated Guide to the Solar System”) and looked at the boy sleeping in his lap. He managed to get them both out of the chair and brought the boy to his bedroom. Carefully, he lay him down on the bed, afraid to wake him. He still hadn’t mastered the art of putting the young boy to bed the way John had. He wasn’t sure he ever would, as evidenced by the way Hamish’s eyes opened when he hit the mattress.

Once the boy was settled, Sherlock brushed back the unruly black curls and gently kissed the young boy’s forehead. Hamish smiled at him. “Daddy Sherlock? Would you please play me my lullaby tonight?” 

John pulled the violin out from behind his back and handed it to Sherlock. As he tuned the instrument, John tucked the little boy in tight and kissed him goodnight as well. He stood in the doorway and listened while Sherlock played the lullaby that had also lulled him to sleep all those years ago. 

Sherlock stopped playing once the boy fell asleep and John moved behind him. Wrapping his arms around the detective’s waist, he pulled him in tight. John held Sherlock’s left hand, his fingers playing with the simple gold band that adorned the man’s ring finger. He was unable to believe how lucky he was. How lucky he was to have this life, with this man, and their son.

#

Sherlock was giving John a foot rub while the two men watched the news. He’d had a long day at the surgery and then he and Sherlock had chased yet another cab through London. At least this time it was because Sherlock had forgotten Hamish’s security blanket and not due to a serial killing cabbie. Sherlock had offered the foot rub as an apology and John quickly accepted the offer. The things those wonderfully dexterous fingers did to his tired feet blew his mind. It was a shame he couldn’t get Sherlock to do it every night.

“MMMMMM.” John hummed when Sherlock finished. “Is Mycroft going to watch Hamish tomorrow while we go to the Yard?” 

“He insisted. Apparently, running the British Government isn’t a full time job when there’s an adorable little boy who needs a babysitter.” 

“Uncle Mycroft. I never thought I’d say that.” John laughed. 

“You’ve said lots of things you’d never thought you’d say. For example, ‘Why are there feet in my slow cooker, Sherlock?’ or my favorite, ‘Did you just puree eyeballs in the blender?’ Would you like me to continue?” 

John started laughing and within seconds, Sherlock had joined in. John had to admit, Sherlock’s laugh was still his favorite sound in the world. “ OK. You win. Ready for bed?” John turned the TV off, stood up, and extended his hand to Sherlock. 

Sherlock took his hand and followed him up the stairs to their bedroom. Once settled in bed, Sherlock kissed John on the forehead. “You’re an idiot.” 

John kissed Sherlock on the cheek. “I love you, too.”


End file.
